Bombay Monsoon, page 3
The thing about Bikas was that he wasn’t too smart. Couldn’t resist bragging. He talked way too much and showed none of the discretion an admitted revolutionary/terrorist on the lam should.
“No one will recognize me with my face covered,” he’d told me that day in Dharavi.
True enough. For the pictures I took when he was wearing the scarf. But it slipped off his face for a brief moment as I was packing up to leave, and—yes—I got off one shot of him in profile. He didn’t notice.
That frame could get me killed if he ever knew it existed.
Now, I retrieved the notebook from the drawer. Flipping through the pages near the end, I noticed Bikas’s name again, this time with a location, “Oval Maidan.” The Maidan was the parade ground near the High Court and the university. I wondered what that was about. But just as soon, I forgot it. There, at the bottom of the same page, after some notes about cricket, was Willy Smets’s name.
“What’s that you’re reading?” asked Janice, Frank’s secretary. She was standing above me.
I closed the notebook and placed it facedown on the desk.
“Some old dispatches,” I said. “Trying to catch up.”
A shapely, middle-aged divorcée who’d come to Bombay five years before to start a new life away from her ex, Janice had told me she’d always been fascinated with India. And when the opportunity arose at UNI, she’d jumped at it. We enjoyed our morning and afternoon tea breaks together on most days.
“What can you tell me about Nielsen?” I asked.
“Eric the Red? Smart enough. But secretive and paranoid about his assignments and features.”
“What about personally?”
“He had a roving eye. And hands, too, if you know what I mean.”
“Why did he leave so suddenly?”
She shrugged. “Just came in one day and said he was through. Didn’t like it here. He left the next day for Seattle.”
“What about his stories? What kind of stuff interested him? Politics? Terrorism?”
“You should ask Mr. Muller. I didn’t talk to him much after he accidentally brushed against me one too many times.”
Once Janice had decamped, I took up the notebook again. Eric Nielsen had been obsessed with getting an invitation to Willy Smets’s parties. He’d lived in the same building as Willy, in my flat, in fact. I was curious to see what he’d written about my neighbor.
There was a date—Wednesday, March 5—with “cocktails” underlined after it. Three exclamation points, too. About a third of the way down the next page, he’d provided his recap of the evening. “Sushmita. No dice. Bitch.”
I stashed Eric’s notes deep in the drawer and turned back to my story on the Supreme Court decision. I’d run into a newspaper guy, Jithender, who covered legal matters and, though politics weren’t normally his bailiwick, he was well connected and informed. Seemed nice enough, so I called him and asked if he’d meet me. On my way out the door, Kishore the “office boy” handed me an envelope. Office boy sounded even worse than servant, but everyone said that was his title. I hated referring to him that way and made a point of always calling him by his name. Inside the envelope was Ashok Pethe’s business card along with a brief note about the dinner party the following Wednesday. He’d scribbled his home phone number on the back of the card.
Jithender G. met me at Cream Centre, across the road from Chowpatty Beach. He was already deep into an oily chana bhatura when I arrived. I ordered a coffee and sat down opposite him.
“Not eating?” he asked, tearing off a hunk of the fried bread and digging into the chickpeas.
“I had lunch.”
He grunted, his mouth full. “Me too. What’s so urgent?”
“Listen, Jithender, I’m covering this Mrs. Gandhi story, and I was hoping you’d give me your take on it. I’m new here and don’t know much about the legal system.”
“Call me Jeetu.”
“Sure thing. So what do you think about her?”
“Mrs. Gandhi? Well, the court ruled her election invalid two weeks ago. It’s hard to be PM when you’re not even an MP.”
“Then she’s out? You think they’ll remove her from office?”
“If she loses the appeal in twenty days’ time.”
I sipped my milky coffee. “You don’t think she’ll lose?”
Jeetu sniffed, wiped his lips with a paper napkin, and considered the question. He took another bite of his second lunch, then gave me his opinion.
“What makes you think Mrs. Gandhi has any intentions of giving up power now? For charges no more serious than a traffic offense? This is minor stuff. She’ll manage.”
“Bribery?”
“Too big to throw out of office. She’ll win the appeal. Or the Supreme Court will hand down a new ruling that allows her to stay. She’s Nehru’s daughter, after all. She and her father have ruled this country for twenty-six of the past twenty-eight years.”
“So from a legal point of view, you think she’ll survive this?”
He chuckled. “Not from a legal point of view. But from a political one? Yes.”
He finished off his chana bhatura and excused himself to wash his hands in the little sink against the wall. When he returned to the table, he said he had an idea.
“You should talk to JP Narayan. That would be a feather in your cap.”
“The opposition leader? I’ve read about him.”
“Lok Nayak, the People’s Leader. My cousin is a protégé of his. JP’s in Delhi now, planning a large rally for tomorrow. If you can get there, I think I can arrange an interview.”
“We barely know each other,” I said, eyeing him with suspicion. “Why would you do that for me?”
“Maybe because you’ll thank me with a bottle of Vat-69.”
I accompanied Jeetu to his flat behind nearby Wilson College. My newfound friend and protector, Willy Smets, was in Poona, so I thought of Ash Pethe instead. He might be able to help. I retrieved his business card from my wallet and called him from Jeetu’s phone.
“I need a bottle of scotch,” I said, prevailing on our brief acquaintance for a favor. “I’ll pay, of course. The local shops only have the domestic stuff. I’m looking for Vat-69.”
Ash let loose a big laugh and said, “Sure. I can help you.”
He told me to stop by his place, where his servant would “do the needful.” Jeetu would have his bottle of Vat-69, which was going to set me back the larcenous sum of 170 rupees. About twenty-one dollars. For Vat-69.
Next, Jeetu made a trunk call to his cousin in Delhi. We had to wait about twenty minutes for the call to go through, but the meeting was set. By 5:30 that afternoon, I was holding a ticket to Delhi on the next morning’s first flight. It had cost me 330 rupees each way, but I’d get my story. And JP Narayan would have some welcome international publicity for his mission to see Mrs. Gandhi thrown out.
Of course, I’d have to convince Frank Muller that an exclusive with JP Narayan was an opportunity too good to waste. His man in Delhi—Chuck Kohlner—could go back to Pattaya or Bangkok or Phuket. For all I cared, he could go to hell. I was flying to Delhi to interview the Lok Nayak and earn my stripes.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 25, 1975, 6:27 P.M.
Frank Muller’s head nearly exploded when I told him what I’d done. He couldn’t very well deny it was the right decision. But he was seething behind the veil of smoke. I worried he might fire off a telex to Kate to demand she take me back. He stubbed out his cigarette and promised me he’d fire me and send me packing if I ever pulled a stunt like that again.
He cooled down, but not before he’d kicked me out of his office. A half hour later, he appeared above me and dropped a packet of fresh and not-so-fresh ten-rupee notes on my desk.
“Reimbursement for the ticket,” he said in a calm voice. “And here’s your hotel reservation.” He handed me a teletype confirmation from the travel agent. “One night. Make the most of it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 1975, 4:09 A.M.
I waited in the lobby of Sagar Darshan for the car our office manager, Girish, had arranged to take me to Santa Cruz Airport for my flight. As the minutes ticked by with no sign of the driver, I worried something had gone wrong. Or was about to. I had no way to contact him, no access to a telephone. And even if I’d had, I didn’t know his number.
The liftman watched from his seat in the elevator as I fretted. A durwan—doorman—and a sweeper lay on the stone floor in the dim fluorescent light, sleeping as soundly as if on a bed of goose feathers. No use asking them where the driver was. How would they know, even if I could make myself understood? I decided to rouse one of the black-and-yellow taxi drivers who parked at the President Hotel across the road.
I grabbed my overnight bag and briefcase and stepped through the folding security gate into the night. The rain had stopped for the moment. Gone was the pungent odor of dusty smoke I’d smelled when I arrived at the International airport six weeks before. Now the air was heavy and wet.
I hurried toward the marg, the main drag at the end of our narrow cul-de-sac. Across the road, barely a hundred yards from my door, the President Hotel was asleep. But I knew there would be taxis.
A policeman appeared, lathi at the ready, and barked something at me in Marathi. He motioned to Sagar Darshan with his left hand, as if ordering me to go back inside. I made a proper fool of myself, repeating “Santa Cruz” over and over to communicate where I needed to go. But his insistence grew stronger, and he approached me in a menacing manner. With no other choice, I retreated into the lobby.
I was an experienced traveler who knew how to get by in less-than-ideal conditions. I’d reported from Africa, Vietnam, and Chile, after all. But this was different. Besides the language barrier, there was also the time of day working against me. The city was asleep. No one to ask for help. At least no one who spoke English. Then there was my flight. I was sure to miss it, and my huge story, if I didn’t get into a taxi soon.
I tried asking the liftman what was going on. Why had the policeman sent me back inside? Of course I knew he didn’t speak English, but I took a stab at it anyway. Next, I woke the sweeper and the durwan. Same language barrier. I made a dialing gesture, and the durwan caught on. Somewhat reluctantly, he opened the small cabin at the rear of the dim lobby. There was a radio, a cluttered desk with schedules, rubber stamps, papers, and a telephone.
A baksheesh was in order. I slipped the man a couple of rupees and lifted the receiver, intending to dial the number on my ticket. But the phone and my sorry luck had other ideas. No dial tone. What the hell was happening?
Peering out through the security gate, I caught sight of the policeman who’d chased me back inside. He was prowling around a tree on the other side of the lane. Then he clamped his lathi under one arm and began to undo his fly. I put the phone down and scooped up my bag. There was a side entrance to the lobby for the servants’ use, and I dashed through it into the compound with the building between me and the cop. Sticking close to the trees along the wall, I emerged into the lane out of his line of sight. Two minutes later, I strode up to the entrance of the President Hotel, confident I could still make my flight.
The door was locked. No durwan. That was strange. At the finer hotels, there was always a mustachioed doorman in a turban, ready to salute you. Even odder, there were no taxis waiting outside. Not one. Through the glass, I could see staff at the reception desk. I tapped on the door, and a smart-looking young man in a maroon blazer came to open up. He unlocked and stepped aside to let me in. His name tag read “Akshay.”
“Sir, please come in,” he said. “It’s not safe.”
“I need a taxi. I’m going to miss my flight.”
“No, sir. Flights are canceled. No taxis are plying.”
“What? Why? What’s happened?”
“The government has declared an emergency,” he said. “That’s all we know. Please go back to your room.”
The staff at deluxe hotels in India always assumed that any foreigner walking through the door was a guest. I was sure they didn’t extend the same respect to Indians.
“I’m staying across the road,” I said. “In the Sagar Darshan building.”
“It’s all right, sir,” he said. “Come sit in the lobby or the coffee shop. It’s not safe to be out.”
I resigned myself to missing my plane and my scoop. What did an “emergency” mean, anyway? Had another war broken out with Pakistan? Akshay didn’t know much.
“We received a tip from Delhi about five hours ago,” he said. “Before the phones and electricity were cut. We’re running on generators now.”
I wandered across the darkened lobby to the coffee shop. In Indian hotels, coffee shops were the in-house restaurants, usually open twenty-four hours. It was a misnomer, at least for Americans, as they in no way resembled what we would call a coffee shop back home. The restaurant was empty at 5:10 in the morning except for an American businessman, dressed for the day in a dark suit and narrow tie. He sat at a table near one of the walls, reviewing some papers through his horn-rimmed glasses. We made eye contact, and the connection was instant. We had to talk to each other and right away.
“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked, offering me the seat across from him with a tilt of his head. I joined him.
“Not much,” I said. “Everything was fine when I turned in last night. I was supposed to catch a flight to Delhi at six. But no car, no taxis. I had to sneak out of my building and avoid a cop to get here. How about you? Any idea what’s happened?”
He neatened his papers then leaned forward to speak. His accent was Southern. Maybe lower Midwestern, and his hair was cropped close to his scalp on the sides. Mine was wavy and longish. We must have looked as mismatched as Mutt and Jeff.
“Mrs. Gandhi has taken over,” he said in a low voice. “Might as well be a coup. Mark my words, no court is going to throw her out of office. That conviction of hers will disappear faster than shit goes through a goose. World’s largest democracy, my ass. This country’s no better than a tinpot dictatorship.”
I considered his words. He might well have been right. One thing was for sure, though. He was an asshole. The ugly American. I wished I hadn’t sat down, but I wanted information, and he seemed to have some.
“Name’s Harlan,” he said, extending a firm hand for me to shake. Then he slipped me his business card. “Russell Harlan, Jr. I’ve written the hotel’s number on the back. In case you want to reach me.”
“Dan Jacobs,” I replied, wondering why the hell I’d ever want to reach him.
“Where you from, Dan?”
“New Haven. New York, actually. I’m a reporter. I was supposed to interview one of the opposition leaders in Delhi later this morning. Christ, if we’re locked down here, I wonder what’ll happen to him.”
Harlan raised his brows and drew a sigh. “You know, they don’t have a long democratic tradition in this country. India is still a backward frontier of modern civilized governance.”
I didn’t agree, but now wasn’t the time to debate the point.
“What about you?” I asked. “You look ready for a day in the office.”
“I’m an agricultural consultant. Corn. These people couldn’t grow a beard if you didn’t show them how.”
I frowned.
“I was going to fly to Bhopal this morning when they told me no way,” he continued. “I managed to call my office in St. Louis, and they gave me the news. Pretty sketchy, but they said the president declared some kind of domestic emergency at midnight. In the dark of night. And the president? Give me a break. Mrs. Gandhi surely dictated the thing and told him where to sign.”
“You found a working phone?” I asked. “Any chance I could make a call?”
“Not anymore. They cut the phones around one in the morning.”
A waiter appeared and presented us with a menu. One menu for the two of us. I asked if he might be able to scare up a second one, and he set off in search of it. He returned a moment later with three. I ordered some coffee and the breakfast buffet, which was being assembled across the dining room. Harlan wanted eggs over medium with toast and bacon.
“Not a fan of buffets,” he said to me once the waiter had assiduously repeated our order and retreated. “Never sure how clean they are.”
“So what’s going to happen next?” I asked.
“I expect things’ll get quiet real fast. The unrest, the strikes, and demonstrations are history. Might be a good thing in the long run.” He paused. “Unless you’re on Mrs. Gandhi’s bad side.”
By seven, I’d made two decisions: one, get away from Russell Harlan, Jr. This guy was precisely the kind I tried to avoid back home. And I wasn’t going to change my spots simply because I was trapped in a deluxe hotel in the middle of an “emergency.” The second decision had to do with the hotel. The President’s comfort beckoned to me. The air-conditioned rooms, restaurant, telephones, and telegraph services. I knew I couldn’t stay long, but one night was doable.
The stack of tens—more than 600 rupees—Frank Muller had dropped on my desk the night before, would cover the cost, so after my breakfast with Harlan, I approached Akshay at the reception desk and asked for a room. Once I’d shared my passport with him, he handed me a key. Ten minutes later, I was showering in room 915. This wasn’t the bucket bath I was becoming used to in my Sagar Darshan place, but a real shower. Hot water.
By seven thirty, the phones and electricity were working again. I tried calling Frank Muller at his flat, but the connection didn’t go through. Hardly unusual in Bombay on any average day. From the window, I could see people and cars on the marg below, the one that intersected with Cuffe Parade Road. The television was broadcasting nothing but the test signal. That was no surprise, of course. Programming aired only in the evening. And there was just the one channel, Doordarshan, which was run by the state.
I tried the radio instead. Jackpot. At 8:00 a.m., Mrs. Gandhi herself came on All-India Radio to address the nation. She gave a brief statement, in Hindi, then in English, intended to reassure the populace.
